Flatmates
by ammcj062
Summary: John didn't meet Mike Stamford in the park - instead, he took a certain taxi. An alternative version to how John and Sherlock could have met.


**A/N:** Written for the comment-fic prompt "Sherlock (BBC), John + any, John didn't meet Mike Stamford in the park-instead, he took a certain taxi..."

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><p>Sherlock examines this stocky stranger in police custody (a precaution, just until they can clear things up, Lestrade obviously has no interest in prosecuting the fellow) from the top of his military-cut head to the soles of his charity-bin feet. He knows the man is a veteran, back from the Middle East due to the psychosomatic limp he recently made great strides in lessening. He's about three weeks away from being forced to leave London, despite the half-rations he's put himself on to try and manage his budget, because while he was a good surgeon nobody wants to hire a doctor that walks with a limp. Bad for the image, you see.<p>

More importantly, Sherlock also knows he's a man with rock-steady nerves, a sharp mind, and no squeamishness for bodies or various parts of them. So when he steps sideways from Lestrade's annoying monologue – he can _see_what happened, he doesn't need it narrated through – he steps so he's standing in front of the almost-victim. (John Watson is his name, the one useful piece of information Lestrade had imparted.)

"How do you feel about the violin?"

Watson's eyes roam up and down Sherlock's frame much as he had done to the man minutes before, cataloguing and organizing information. Bolder behavior than normal, presumably, due to the recent kidnapping. Survival instinct trumps social niceties, and it'll be at least four more hours until said survival instincts begin receding. Sherlock notes the places his eyes wander – checking for visible calluses on the fingers, appraising musculature, brushing by all the places a professional would stash a weapon – and judges the examination inadequate (he missed the toe of the shoe, which assassins sometimes modify to hold a poison-tipped blade) as well as irrelevant, since Watson is evaluating for fighting proficiency when they obviously are not going to brawl in front of half of Scotland Yard. It's the military mindset, finding value in a person's physical prowess instead of their intelligence. Sherlock disdains such thinking, but tempered by Watson's personality it would be bearable, so he patiently submits to the appraisal.

Once Watson's finished his assessment he resumes eye contact with Sherlock and asks in a quieter voice than expected, "Pardon?" The tone indicates he does not, in fact, have any strong feelings about the violin.

Sherlock inserts that information into his calculations, lets them whirl out a few more deductions to file away in his mental folder named 'John Watson.' "I'm trying to determine whether you and I would make good flatmates. I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?" Sherlock hopes it doesn't; the bedroom upstairs has been empty for a week longer than Sherlock planned, and if he doesn't find a roommate soon he'll have to abandon 221B for somewhere cheaper and much more restricting.

A small smile flutters beneath Watson's set expression. "Do you always find your flatmates at crime scenes?"

It's a ridiculous supposition, and Sherlock snorts in proper disdain. "Of course not. Most of the people I meet at crime scenes are dead or police, and I'd never room with someone like _Anderson._" It's insulting to even think about, sharing his living space with that imbecile.

The smile widens a bit, and Watson's eyes dart over the crime scene as if he's trying to identify Anderson from the crowd swarming around them. Sherlock's curious to see if he could – Anderson does have a uniquely grating presence – but John shifts his focus back to Sherlock. "I just killed someone, you know. A cabbie."

Ah, yes. Many would be put off by that, which is why John has had trouble finding a flatshare since he got back from active duty. Sherlock waves his hand to mitigate the concern; so far, Watson has only killed people trying to kill him. It's a perfectly respectable response. "Not a problem."

Watson opens his mouth, pauses, and closes it again. Sherlock can almost see the whirl of thoughtfulness behind his eyes – slower than Sherlock's own but deadly in their plodding tenacity, like a bulldog methodically grinding its jaws closer and closer to its prey's jugular vein. He's weighing desperation versus uncertainty, holding his desire to stay in London against the danger of rooming with an unknown stranger and deciding which one he values more.

Finally, Watson nods once. Sherlock grins at the ex-soldier. "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street. We'll meet there tomorrow evening at 7 o'clock. Now I believe you've got to dash; Lestrade will want a statement before he clears this up." Sherlock walks away, fighting hard to contain his satisfaction and ignoring the incredulous glare Donovan shoots him from over Lestrade's shoulder. He'll make sure to include mentions of her eavesdropping the next time he insults her.


End file.
